Weapon of Flesh (36 page)

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his words did seem to calm her a bit.  He moved so quickly that she did not even flinch before she died.

He placed the note and left, streaking silently through the halls of Baron Volkes’ estate.  He had one more target to eliminate this night, and the magic that controlled him would not let him rest before the job was done.

A skinny girl in drab skirts and a stained leather corset stepped into a small pub on the edge of The Sprawls.  She stood for a moment, blinking into the lamplight that seemed bright compared to the darkness outside.  It only took her a moment to spy her quarry.  She approached the table at a quick walk and plopped down in the chair across from the man who wore the Duke’s seal on his shoulder.

“I got somethin’ you want, Master-sergeant.”  She put her hands flat on the table, just in case the big guardsman was fool enough to take her for a threat.

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, eying her up and down, “but I don’t consort with whores, so be off.”

“Found a steady girl, then, did ya?”  He sneered and started to reply, but she waved a hand and cut him off.  “That ain’t what I mean, and you know it, Master-sergeant.”  She reached across the table and snatched his tankard, earning a scowl.  “I’m talkin’ about information.”  She sipped the ale and raised her eyebrows.  “You can afford good ale, Master-sergeant.”

“What makes you think I’m looking for information?”

“Oh, come on.  It’s all over the streets about them poor royals of the Duke’s Court droppin’ like flies to some assassin’s dagger.”  She sipped again.  “If your coin’s as good as your ale, I’ll tell you where to find someone who knows this killer.”

“You know this murderer?”

“No, but I can point you in the right direction, Master-sergeant, and that’s more than you’ve got now by a long shot.”  She drank deeply, draining the tankard, then pushed the empty vessel back across the table to him.  “Fill that with gold instead of ale and I’ll tell you where you can find someone who knows him.”

“Three gold crowns,” he offered, producing the coins and placing them on the table for her to see.

“Ten.”

“Five.”

“Seven.”

“Six, and that’s more than you earn on your back in a fortnight, so let’s have it!”  He pushed the coins across the table.

“And just how do you know my prices haven’t gone up, Master-sergeant?”  She looked at the money, then at his glowering features.  “You ain’t
paid
for my services in a long time.”

“Take it or leave it.  I could care less which.”

“Okay then.”  She scooped the coins up and stuffed them into her corset.  “The
Tap and Kettle
.  It’s an inn up in Eastmarket.  The innkeeper’s the one you want to talk to.  His name’s Forbish or somethin’.”

She got up and left, letting herself smile at the irony of being paid twice by two different people for the same task.  “And I didn’t even have to hitch up me skirts,” she mumbled to herself with a quiet chuckle.

Lad squirmed over the wall of the Grandfather’s estate and dropped to the ground in a graceless heap.  He lay there for a moment, struggling to breathe, concentrating on remaining conscious.  He coughed and tasted blood.  The magic prevented pain, but the weakness was overwhelming.  All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep.

But the magic wouldn’t let him rest.

He struggled to his feet; it was difficult with his left arm not working and his consciousness waning with every ragged breath.  The lucky shot from a guard atop a buttressed wall would have killed any man, and had nearly killed Lad despite the healing magic that prevented him from bleeding to death.  But if he couldn’t breathe he would eventually die, which was his only desire.  Unfortunately, the magic drove him on.

He entered the secret door at the base of the north tower and descended the stairs to the sparring room.  After passing through there at a shambling half-run and down the short hall, he opened the door to the stair that led down to his chamber.  He had never counted the stairs, but there seemed too many, and at the bottom he bumped into the door before he saw it in the gloom.  His hand fumbled with the latch and he felt the door swing away from him as it opened.  He could not catch himself, and fell heavily onto the landing.  He had fulfilled Mya’s instructions; he had returned to the interrogation chamber.  Now he could rest.  Now he could die.

“Lad!”

He felt cool hands on his face, a strong grasp checking the pulse at his wrist.

“Gods, Lad.  What the hell happened?”

Mya’s voice sounded strange, but the weakness was taking him down a spiral of darkness where everything seemed strange.  She turned him over and gasped when she found the arrow and her fingers came away bloody.

“I... almost... escaped you.”  His voice was a croaked whisper.  He fumbled for her with one hand, trying to stop her from tending to his wound.  If he put her off long enough... maybe....  The image of a scared young boy cowering in a corner amid the bodies of the guards who had just given their lives trying to save him visited his mind.  The memory hit him like a wave of nausea.  He could not stand to remember what had followed.

“You what?  Hold still!”

“Please...” he said, forced to hold still by the unrelenting magic.  “Let me go.”

“Shut up and don’t fight me.  I’ve got to get you to the table.  Can you walk?”

He carefully gauged his strength, or the lack of it, before answering.

“No.”  It would not be long now.

“Then just don’t fight me.”

He felt one hand under his knees and another under his back, and heard her strain with his weight.  She was stronger than most women her size, and lifted him with some minor cursing.  There were a few bumps as she descended the steps, then a solid thump as she virtually dropped him onto the stone slab that was his bed.

“Now, let’s see about that arrow.”  A knife parted his shirt from neck to cuff, and he heard a sharply indrawn breath.  He opened his eyes and looked curiously up at the expression on her face.  It was as if the arrow had found her flesh instead of his, so twisted with pain was her visage.  “Gods, Lad.  This is in to the fletching!” 

Her fingers probed where the wood met flesh just in the hollow of his collarbone.  The shot had been from directly overhead, and he’d moved just enough to keep it from piercing his skull.  The shaft had entered him in the soft tissue between the collarbone and his shoulder blade, and had passed straight down through lung and diaphragm and into his viscera, severing the nerves that controlled his arm.  He had tried to pull the arrow out, but the barbed head dragged at his insides, causing the weakness to spread. 

“Yes,” he said, though she hadn’t told him to answer.  It wouldn’t be long now; he could feel the weakness slowly enveloping him.  There was no point to sparring with her.

“What do I do?”

He looked up at her, remembering the boy’s sobbing pleas, and said, “Let me die.”

“No.”  There was something in her face that Lad couldn’t read.  It was familiar, but the weakness was playing with his consciousness and he couldn’t remember.  “No, I won’t let you die.  Tell me, was the arrow’s head barbed or straight?”

“Barbed.”

“Damn.”  She bit her lip and cast a glance around the room.  “Hold still.”

She left him for a moment and he heard the clatter of metal instruments.  There were many tools in the room - tools of torture.  He could discern the sounds of knives, pliers and pincers, and knew what she was going to do.  He could only hope that she was not as adept at surgery as with her quick wit.

“Now hold still, Lad.  This will hurt, but --”

“No, it will not hurt.  I feel no pain.”

“Oh, yeah.  Handy, that.”

“No pain,” he said, his voice fading to a whisper.  “No remorse.  The child…  was someone’s son, someone’s best friend.  More sons…   best friends… wives… husbands… will die if you do not let me go.  I do not want to kill anymore.  Please...”

“Shut up, Lad.  You’re delirious.”

He could see in her face that she knew he was not delirious, but the magic made him remain quiet.

“Now, show me where the tip of this arrow is.”

He indicated a spot just below the lowest rib on his left side.

“Great.  Now hold very still.”

He felt the knife part his flesh, and heard her astonished gasp.

“Gods!  It closed right back up!”  She muttered and grabbed another instrument from the tray.  “You’re going to have to help me here, Lad.  I’ll part the flesh and put this in,” she held up a flat-bladed hook made for pulling bones from living flesh.  “You’ll have to hold the wound open.  Nod if you understand me.”

He nodded.

“Fine.  Now.”

The blade parted his flesh again and he felt the cold metal of the hook as it went in.

“Hold this.”

He grasped the handle and pulled, feeling his ribs lift with the tension.  Dimness crept into the edges of his vision.

“Good!  I can see it.  There’s a lot of blood.”

Lad heard a spattering sound, like rain overflowing a clogged gutter.  Something touched the arrow sending a tremor through his flesh.  He heard the snip of heavy shears severing the head from the shaft, then felt Mya grasp the arrow by the fletching and pull the entire length out in one smooth motion.  His grip slackened on the hook.

“No!  Don’t let go!  I’ve got to get the arrowhead out.  Stay still.”

His breath was coming in rattles and he felt the need to cough, but she had ordered him to stay still.  Dimness advanced across his vision as she probed with the pliers.  His eyes sagged shut.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a gurgling whisper, not knowing who he was apologizing to this time.  There were so many—so many faces of wives, and sons, and friends he’d murdered.  He saw them all in the darkness of his mind.  “I’m sorry for everything.”

“Got it.”

He felt a wrenching pull, and the handle of the hook slipped from his limp grasp.

“There, now.  You can let it go.”  Her voice was faint in his ears.  “Lad?”

He tried to answer, but couldn’t.

“Lad, concentrate!  Breathe!”

He forced himself to take a breath, but he was too weak.  It was barely a rattle.

“Breathe!  Now!”

He felt something press against his lips and fingers pinching his nose, and then air flooded into his collapsed lung.  He coughed spasmodically and heard cursing, but breathing was easier.  His eyes fluttered and he saw Mya wiping blood from her face.  His left arm tingled as his nerves knit together.  He reached for her.  He didn’t know why, but she was there, and she was solid.

“No, Lad.  You rest.  Sleep.”  She took his hand and folded it across his chest.

Whether from the compulsion of the magic or the overwhelming exhaustion of the trauma, he found her suggestion irresistible.

“We got something, Captain!”

Norwood was out of his chair before the man was even through his office door.  Truth be told, he’d been half-asleep, exhausted from hours of writing letters to wives of guardsmen who would never see their husbands again.  But he was up now, and the bright-eyed sergeant’s enthusiasm was better than a cup of fresh blackbrew.

“Where, Sergeant?”

“An inn in Eastmarket by the name of
Tap and Kettle
.  My source said the innkeeper, a man named Forbish, knows who the assassin is.”